"It is very curious that Rose does not come back; it is only five miles into the city. I begin to think that something has happened to the poor child," said old Mrs. Bond. "I feel quite uneasy. Mrs. Howe certainly would not keep her any longer than she could help. Something must have happened;" and she walked from one window to the other, put up her spectacles, and took them out, then took a book down from the shelf, and after reading it upside down a few minutes, returned it to its place again.

"I must certainly go into town and see what is the matter," said she. "I never shall rest easy till I know;" and going out to the barn, she called the cow-boy, and by his help, harnessed the old gray horse into the chaise, for a drive into the city.

It was slow work, that ride; for the old, stiff-jointed creature, knowing well the all-enduring patience of his mistress, crawled leisurely up and down the long hills, stopped to pay his respects to every water-trough he came across, and nosed round the sides of the road after the grass-patches, in the most zig-zag fashion; now and then stopping short, and insisting upon an entire reprieve from locomotion, to be lengthened or shortened, at his own discretion. As to the whip, old Gray stood in no fear of that, because his mistress never used it for any thing but to drive off the flies. It is not astonishing, therefore, that it was well on toward noon before he and Mrs. Bond reached the city. It was as much of an event for old Gray, as for his mistress, to see it. It was many years since either had been there. Its kaleidoscope frivolities had little charm for Mrs. Bond; her necessary wants were easily supplied from the village, and she was so fortunate as to have no artificial ones.

Old Gray stopped short, as the city's din fell upon his unsophisticated ear; and as he moved on and listened to the lashings less favored nags were receiving from merciless drivers, as he saw the enormous loads under which they staggered—stumbled—and oftentimes fell upon the plentifully watered, and slippery pavement, rising (if they rose at all) with strained and excoriated limbs, he probably thought, if horses ever think, that "God made the country, and man made the town."

"Whip up your old skeleton. Get out of the way there, can't ye?" muttered one of the progressives. "Drive to the left there, ma'am; drive to the right; halt there, ma'am," and similar other expostulations, coupled with invectives, were thundered in the ears of Mrs. Bond; who, in her benevolence of heart, jerked this way and that, backed, sidled, and went forward, and in the vain attempt to oblige all, displeased every body; still she maintained her placidity, and smiled as sweetly as if every person in the blockaded thoroughfare were not wishing her in the torrid zone.

The old lady's greatest trouble, was her fear of running over some one of the many pedestrians, of all sizes and ages, who traversed so fearlessly that Babel of horses and carriages.

"Dear heart!" she would ejaculate, as some little child made his unprotected way through the vehicles. "Dear heart! it will certainly get killed!"

Good old soul! she did not know how miraculously city children live on, in spite of crowded streets, schoolteachers, milk-men, and foolish mammas.

But at length, a stable is reached near Mrs. Howe's; and the jolly hostlers nudge each other in the ribs, as the old ark rattles into the paved yard; and Mrs. Bond climbs carefully out, and resigns old Gray into their hands, with many charges as to his plentiful supply of water and oats. As the nice old lady turns her back, they go into convulsions of merriment over the whole establishment, from harness to hub; interrogating old Gray about his pedigree in a way which they think immensely funny.

Mrs. Bond threads her way along on foot, now good-naturedly picking up a parcel for some person who had unconsciously dropped one, now fumbling from out her pocket a penny for the little vagrants who are tossing mud back and forth over the crossings, with very questionable stubs of brooms, to the imminent risk of pedestrians; and now she slides a newspaper, which the truant wind has displaced, under the door crack for which it was destined.

Now she sees a group of ragged, dirty little children, nestled upon a door-step, upon which they have spread out a dingy cloth, containing old bones, bits of meat, cold potatoes, and crusts of bread, upon which their hungry eyes are gloating. It is too much for the old lady. She points to the gutter, where she wishes their unwholesome meal thrown, and beckoning them toward a baker's window, plentifully supplies the whole party with fresh bread and crackers.

And now she stops short, for she hears a name uttered dear as her hopes of heaven.

"Jesus Christ!"

The speaker's hands are not clasped, his head is not bowed, no prayer followed that dear name; it was not reverently spoken. She turns on the gentleman who uttered it a look, not of reproof but pity—such a look as might have lingered on the Saviour's face when he said, "Father forgive them; they know not what they do."

A crimson blush overspread his face, and his "Pardon me, madam" was answered only by a gathering tear in the old lady's eye as she bowed her head and turned slowly away, her lips moving as if in prayer. He felt it—and the jest died upon his lip as his eyes involuntarily followed her feeble footsteps, and thoughts of a sainted mother's long-forgotten prayers came rushing through his mind with childhood's freshness.

Ah, who shall say into what pits of selfish and unhallowed pleasure that look shall haunt the recipient? What night shall be dark enough to hide it, what day bright enough to absorb its intensity? Who shall say that hallelujahs shall not yet tremble on the lips where erst were curses?